


Of dogs and men

by Beanwhile



Series: A French Affair [2]
Category: The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Doggy Style, Leashes, M/M, Public Humiliation, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beanwhile/pseuds/Beanwhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You see, Rochefort, since normal human methods don't work on you..." Richelieu begins with a certain dose of impatience, like a teacher who has to repeat everything they've just said to a child who hasn't been listening. "I think lowering down my criteria and training you like a dog would be a good start to a more, ah, fruitful? relationship between us."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of dogs and men

**Author's Note:**

> You can read this as a follow-up of "Inquisition of Acquisition" bit you won't miss on plot (HA HA PLOT) if you don't.  
> Edit: Billion thanks to [Hereticality](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hereticality) who liveread this for me and pointed out some problematic places, which resulted in a proper proofreading on my part. Thank you, bby >w

                Silence falls heavy between them. Rochefort keeps his head down because Richelieu is superior to him. He also keeps it down because basic instinct is sitting on his head, desperate to keep said head attached to his neck when Richelieu is angry.

                And angry is a pale, miserable word, has one been in need to describe the actual fury burning in Cardinal Richelieu.

                The silence is ominous, stretching second after second, and each feels like an eternity. Even the white noise that always brims from the gardens is silenced, as if the flame that is Richelieu's anger is like a forest fire, burning everything in its way. It is so quiet Rochefort can hear the air streaming out of his nose, and immediately shallows his breaths. His heart starts protesting after a while, and hammers against his chest, but he daren't move even one muscle on his face.

                Sweat breaks over his temples and the tickling sensation irritates his skin. His hand trembles, almost ready to shoot up and wipe the sweat, but he manages to stop himself in time. He prays to God Richelieu didn't see this just now.

                A heavy sigh echoes in the room and Rochefort uses it to take a big breath. The storm has passed. Perhaps now the Cardinal was going to pretend he was calm and collected; perhaps he was going to start yelling and destroying everything in his immediate reach, but that is fine with him. Rochefort can take that. The silence - never.

                "My dear Rochefort," the Cardinal begins and the sweetness and cheer of his voice shoot Rochefort's heart cold dead in his stomach. "Be as kind as to meet me in my chambers an hour before sunset? Thank you. You may go."

                Rochefort gives a curt nod to the floor visible to him and briskly heads to the door, trying his best to avoid meeting the Cardinal's gaze. He wouldn’t be surprised even if there is a ring or hellish fire surrounding the man, feeding on the corpses of the guards which were nearest.

                "It is a funny thing to remark on, yet I trust you will be sober?" the Cardinal adds, making Rochefort cringe mid-step. That bottle of wine is just a dream now.

                "Naturally, Your Eminence." he replies, and hears his voice, trembling and thinned.

                The hours of the afternoon roll faster than a bucket down on a hill.

                When the sun begins to near the horizon, he heads for the Cardinal's private chambers. It is his duty to know where they are and how many are the entrances and exits that lead there. Aside from that he has never really been in the rooms, as Richelieu was known for practically living in his cabinet, which was actually far from his personal chambers.. The guards in front of the central door don't even spare Rochefort a glance when they open the door for him. He swallows, even more tense now, and crosses himself upon entering.

                The door closes behind him and he hears footsteps going away. The Cardinal must've personally instructed the guards to go away and Rochefort trembles with actual fear. He was hoping that Richelieu's anger would have subsided through the afternoon, but it seems like it has only been fuelled further. No guards in front of the door would actually mean a lot of screaming, and Rochefort suspects he is going to be the one to provide it.

                He wanders aimlessly around the bedroom, trying not to break or even touch anything. Bad luck has been following him for a while now, ever since that D'Artagnan kid arrived in the city. Rochefort clenches his fist - he would give just about anything just to have one opportunity to beat the little snot-nosed brat to a pulp.

                The swift opening and closing of the door, followed by the rustling sound of the Cardinal's robes, interrupts Rochefort’s thoughts and he turns around to see Richelieu hurrying towards him. The Cardinal seems jittery, almost impatient, as if work has delayed him from something really good. Rochefort sighs with relief and hurries to take and kiss the hand Richelieu is offering him.

                "Your Eminence." he kneels, and takes the hand, planting his lips on the velvet red glove, maybe even too eager, for his tongue actually brushes its surface.

                "Rochefort." Richelieu replies kindly. And forcefully pulls his hand from Rochefort's meek grip, planting it with such force on Rochefort’s face that the latter gasps in surprise, falling heavily on his back. "Lord! Have I been itching for this since earlier today!" Richelieu hisses, and throws himself on Rochefort. He easily mounts him, skilfully and mercilessly delving his tailbone into Rochefort's crotch. Rochefort’s groan of initial discomfort quickly turns into a scream of pain. He tries to breathe, tries to ignore it, but this is not a thing a man could possibly ignore. He gnashes hi teeth and feels actual tears wash the corners of his eyes.

The Cardinal shifts his weight and this is the only indication that the torture has ended; Rochefort’s crotch still burned with the immensity of the pain, convulsing in its need to curl up and never get off the floor again.

Richelieu takes off his velvet glove and, swinging again, plants another heavy slap on Rochefort's face, this time hitting the other cheek. It hurts, or rather burns, yet feels like nothing compared to what still feels like a massacre between his legs. Rochefort cringes, but dares not fight back. It would only fuel the Cardinal even more.

                Richelieu gets off him as quick as he has previously mounted and strides away, somewhere out of Rochefort's field of vision. There is rustling of clothes and Rochefort, submitting to his curiosity, tries to move. He props himself on his elbows and looks around for the Cardinal. The worst that could happen would be something heavy and edgy thrown at his face... or crotch, which is still hurting from the heavy impact with the Cardinal's tailbone. Sometimes Rochefort wondered how he was still not a eunuch.

                "Take off your clothes." Richelieu orders him from somewhere across the room.

                Rochefort fumbles, but somehow manages to get on his feet and starts undressing. The twilight of the setting sun glimmers off his shiny buttons and the rapier as he drops the weapon and his clothes, one by one, on the ground. He is almost done unbuttoning his undershirt when what he supposed to be the Cardinal comes to him. He gasps, and his hand is nearly on his weapon, because the man is dressed as one of the Cardinal's guards. In a split second he wonders where he has come from, or why Rochefort didn't hear a door opening and closing. The slaps, yes, but the timing would’ve been impossible for a man to handle...

                "It's just me." the man laughs and Rochefort realises it is Richelieu himself, dressed as one of his guards. He drops his rapier on the ground, utterly confused. "Do you like my outfit?" the Cardinal makes a mock-bow to him and continues without waiting for an answer. "No, no need to take off those. I'll handle the rest. Come."

                He takes a firm hold of Rochefort’s elbow and escorts him in a swift pace to the bed. Contrary to his own understanding of common sense, Rochefort’s heart swells with hope. He prefers to be literally sodomized by the Cardinal, as long as no one knew about the secret pleasure of it, not even Richelieu himself. He bites his lower lip nearly to the point of pain when the Cardinal shoves him on the bed.

                "You see, Rochefort, since normal human methods don't work on you..." Richelieu begins with a certain dose of impatience, like a teacher who has to repeat everything they've just said to a child who hasn't been listening. "I think lowering down my criteria and training you like a dog would be a good start to a more, ah, fruitful? relationship between us."

                He leans over Rochefort and his hands slide beneath him, working on the buttons of Rochefort's drawers. Rochefort reaches to help out, but his hands are harshly slapped, so he props himself on his elbows and lets Richelieu do as he has planned. He readily lifts his arse in the air and the Cardinal slowly peels the pants down to Rochefort's knees.

                Rochefort's pulse fastens, and he finds himself nervous, some vague fear mixing with anticipation. There are just a thousand ways for Richelieu to humiliate him publicly to the point of making him the laughing stock of the whole country. Being true to his nature, the Cardinal could then probably think of a thousand more. Yet he carries out his "training" in private. The mixed signals confuse Rochefort, even though he has known the Cardinal long enough and should know better than to question him.

                Something very slippery and cold pushes against his hole and he yelps from the surprise.

                "Don't get distracted, Rochefort." Richelieu scolds him and the push against Rochefort's hole increases.

                It is slippery enough, however, and goes in comparatively easy, eliciting sighs and moans from Rochefort on its way inside him. Then, just as the stretch starts causing him actual pain there is a sudden slip and ease, as if something has been pushed completely inside of him. He starts, but Richelieu presses his fingers against his backbone and pushes him back down against the soft bed.

                "It can be plugged out later, if that is what bothers you. Try to sit."

                Rochefort tries to turn and see what on Earth has been put inside of him, but the crack of his ass is unreachable to his eyes. He pushes himself away from the bed and turns around, carefully easing himself on his ass while sitting. Something cold presses against his buttocks and the thing that is inside him slowly pushes further in. It sends shivers up his spine when it presses that special spot inside, though it is probably nothing compared to what he imagines to be the intense hammering of Richelieu.

                "Good." Richelieu approves.

                He caresses Rochefort with his bared fingers and the latter freezes between his initial wish to lean in the touch and the tensing in anticipation of another slap on the face. Richelieu does nothing violent, however. He removes Rochefort’s eye patch and takes a good, curious look at what it hides before taking out a raggedy cloth from his uniform and tying it around Rochefort's eyes, using it as a blindfold.

                Rochefort, who has had years of getting used to going around with one eye, is now completely plunged in darkness.

He remembers the black, searing pain when his left eye was done away with, and his body shivers and tenses upon the complete nightfall upon his vision, as painless and temporary as it may be. He feels the slip of conscious control and trembles. He can almost feel the pain again, burning and disgusting, the bleeding and the denial of the loss. He struggles with himself, but his hands are already reaching to remove the blindfold…

                He feels Richelieu's palm upon his own and lowers his hands. His breathing has become erratic and uneven, he notices.

Richelieu caresses his head. Rochefort wants to believe that they're done with the sudden infliction of pain, wants to lean into the touch. He doesn’t really mind to be tortured and ripped apart, not when it comes to the catharsis of bliss. The Cardinal pets him like a hound, running his elegant fingers through Rochefort's hair, once more, twice; slowly and gently. The third time his fingers hook onto Rochefort's band and take it off, letting the hair free.

                A long second of nothingness passes and then Richelieu's fingers are at his head again. This time they're rude, and unforgiving, ruining the general uniformity and direction of the locks, messing and tangling them, tearing up the strands with the roots where they resist his merciless ravaging of Rochefort's scalp.

                Rochefort purses his lips - the pain is at its worst only mild - and reminds himself that the Cardinal does everything with a reason. If he needs Rochefort's hair messed up then there are valid reasons. Feelings have nothing to do with this, at least not on the other side, he realizes again, and his heart skips a painful beat.

                When Richelieu is satisfied with the result he removes his hand and there is the rustling of a cloth - Rochefort assumes that the Cardinal has probably wiped his hand in something. He convinces himself he feels nothing about it.

                "Well, now." Richelieu begins. "I will make you a compliment by assuming that your intelligence is one step higher than that of the very average dog, hence I will be giving your instructions of what you are to do. Is that clear?"

                "Perfectly."

                "Good boy." Rochefort jumps when he senses a touch behind his ear, his mind and body ready for more sudden pain, but the Cardinal just scratches the skin with his blunt, perfect nails.

                "I'm putting your collar now and we'll go for a walk. Are you excited about it?" the Cardinal continues and Rochefort can feel the other man's hands working around his neck.

                His heart sinks into his feet. He feels sick. Fear of death he knows not. Humiliation is quite another thing. It rocks the whole of his body. He is going to be walked around the royal palace. Like a dog. He knows, he is aware, he has even heard them whispering, certain people calling him the Hound of Richelieu. This would give everyone the opportunity to take in on the joke. His head starts swimming, and the motion, imaginary or not, drags his body into it. His knees bend down under the pressure of the sway, his body tilts, dangerously close to falling down next to the bed. He entertains the thought of just running out of the room and never coming back. He has enough money, he could easily go somewhere else, have a new identity, serve somewhere else-

                Something thick and leathery tightens around his neck, partially obstructing the airflow to his lungs. He remembers what the Cardinal has asked him. He nods, more to the certainty of his imminent doom, rather than to confirm his happiness to Richelieu.

                "Good! Walk now. Let's see if you will catch up on the commands without me hollering at you like the imbecile you are." Richelieu's voice is cheerful, yet he misses not a single opportunity to inject his words with venom and offence.

                Rochefort pushes with his hands against the bed in order to get up and realizes his pants are still down. His muscles tense and he feels it again, the filling inside of him, now warmed by the heat of his own body. He decides not to bet on curiosity and instead slowly reaches down. He quickly finds his drawers and pulls them up. The buttons are a pain though, and Richelieu doesn't help him. He misses something - he can tell by the unchanging looseness of the drawers. He tries again, to the same result. His hands start trembling - he's not used to doing such precise jobs, not with his eye blinded. He gives up and simply pulls down his undershirt, hoping that it will cover enough while they walk.

                He feels the slightest of tugs at his neck and realizes that he's expected to lead the way regardless of the fact that he’s blinded. He tries to remember how the room looks like, but it slips him, like water dripping free through spread fingers, so he just goes on in a random direction, hoping that Richelieu won't let him completely break himself in collision with random hard objects.

                Almost immediately there's a sudden tug that makes him lose his footing for a second, and it drags him to the left. This must be the direction of the door. He follows it, but soon after there's another, lighter this time, hinting that he's going off direction a bit. He tries to adjust, taking slow, nervous steps. His boots are not on him and he has the nagging feeling that he'll stub his toes.

                Richelieu doesn't seem to mind their slow pace - he only tugs left or right to adjust their direction, until he gives a gentle pull that is perfectly in the middle. Rochefort stops, and hears Richelieu's footsteps taking their owner ahead. He feels a gentle caress on the low of his back, after which he hears a door being opened and the caress turns into a push. He uses his hands to grope his way around and tell when he's out of the room. He stops then and goes a bit to the left to make room for Richelieu. He can hear the gentle rush of air made by the swift way the Cardinal closes and opens doors, and then there is another caress on the small of his back.

                "You're doing extraordinary well!" the Cardinal coos in his ear. "Right, boys?"

                Rochefort's blood stops cold in his veins and he frantically turns his head around, completely forgetting that he is blindfolded. Richelieu laughs, rather loudly, and pats him on the back.

                "Just teasing, there's no one but us here. Go on."

                Rochefort remembers how to breathe again and inhales deeply. He goes on, guided by the tugging of his leash. He tries to concentrate on his hearing, perversely desperate to hear giggling or frantic whispers, the beginning of his reputation's downfall, but there's nothing so far; only distant footsteps and whispers of some conversations too far away from them for him to even tell the words apart. Richelieu warns him about staircases, and allows him to hold onto rails in two cases, but otherwise he's silent as well, and there's no more body contact between them.

                They pass another door and there's a sudden whiff of fresh air - they must be somewhere in the gardens. A crushing new wave of fear hits him again - the day has been beautiful and the king and his court are just bound to have a party outside. Maybe Rochefort is going to be the main event. His body tenses at the idea and he feels the hardness of the foreign object in his ass.

                He swallows hard and continues on. It appears that perhaps he's unconsciously trying to walk too fast because the leash tugs at him more often now, not to guide to a direction but to slow him down. He can actually hear whispers and conversations about a guard and he starts sweating - he might've been lucky in the palace but here people are bound to notice the peculiar pair.

                There's a sudden outburst of giggling nearby, causing a violent shiver to run down his spine. His mind starts racing with ideas, replies, excuses. There is an especially violent tug of the leash.

                "Down, boy."

                For a moment he thinks he's done for, he's already being pointed and laughed at, and people are taking in on the dog joke, with his unbuttoned underwear and the leash, not to mention the blindfold. The voice that has just commanded him sounds raspy and harsh, exasperated, but also somewhat rotund and unknown. Yet it can't be anyone else's but that of Richelieu - the distinct ring of amusement, that one string of politeness, no matter the words spoken, and the overall condescending tone, all of that meaning Richelieu and no one else.

                Rochefort obeys, upset as he is, and goes on. It feels like he's endlessly trudging along on the way to Hell, or maybe this is Hell already and he's in it. They pass by murmurs and giggling, and sometimes the voices are close, sometimes not; and sometimes he can make out distinct words like "weird" and "guard" and sometimes not. At least his feet, hurting at first because of the gravel, are now somehow better - he has a few grazes but there are no cuts or bleeding as far as he can tell.

                It feels like it's been hours when there are footsteps ahead of them which run towards their general direction. Richelieu tugs at the leash and Rochefort stops.

                "You're from the Cardinal's guard, right?" an unknown voice asks somewhere from in front of him.

                Habit makes him open his mouth, and he's ready to introduce himself, but the leash tugs violently at his throat and he chokes, rendered unable to talk.

                "Yes, I am." the rotund voice replies.

                "What are you doing with this man?"

                "He has somehow managed to get himself into the palace, blind and mute as he is. I'm taking him to the gates where somebody will take care to get him out of here." the rotund voice explains.

                Rochefort's jaw drops in utter confusion.

And then the next moment everything crystallizes so painfully clear to him he can practically see his thoughts like pinned butterflies on a wall, only to scatter in a puff of fluttery wings by the stone thrown into them – the question “Why?”. Rochefort knows how to follow orders; he knows how to obey. He knows who is his master, and he-

                "He kind of looks like Comte de Rochefort, doesn't he?" the unknown voice suggests, and there's genuine curiosity, but also the assertiveness of a man who is very sure in his opinion.

                Rochefort's mouth gapes in sheer terror. Panic rushes through his body like fire, and he feels his limbs start trembling. He's about to protest, deny everything, run away, when he feels the leash tightening around his neck again. It's slow, but unwavering; it’s pulling him back and down. His body reacts way faster afore his mind has consciously processed what he is to do; he bows his head and takes a slow step back, then another one. The leash slackens its grip of his neck.

                He takes a deep breath and realizes the immediate effect this has had on him. Richelieu has probably noticed the panic building up and he has quickly intervened, wiping Rochefort's mind by making him follow the prerogative of the leash’s command. Has he not done this, who knows what kind of ridiculous and humiliating situation would have Rochefort put both of them in. Gratitude warms his chest and he concentrates on his breathing again.

                "You have to watch that mouth of yours." the rotund voice replies calmly, but the iron overtone in it rings like an unsheathed sword. "Captain Rochefort is a respected man and you might wake up with your tongue cut out even before such slander reaches the Captain."

                Rochefort shivers from the ice in this voice, and wonders how much of these words are just for the sake of the play they're doing. Then there's a gentle whiplash which signals him to go on, and he abandons his musings to obey. They pass by the stuttering, apologizing man and go on.

                The rest of their little walk goes on unperturbed by other people. There is still the giggling and whispering, but it is somehow muffled, as if someone has stuffed Rochefort’s ears with cotton. When he’s not adjusting to the guiding of his leash he can't stop thinking about the Cardinal's words. His body is tense and the awareness of the foreign object in his ass is especially acute now, which completes the vicious circle of his restlessness.

                When they are back in the Cardinal's chambers Richelieu lets him tumble on the bed before leaning over and taking off the blindfold. Rochefort carefully opens his eye, prepared for the light to blind him, but no such thing occurs. He starts blinking rapidly as the colours presented to his vision slowly de-blur and take their separate positions of objects in space. It is dark outside, dark like Richelieu’s favourite ink (and Rochefort doesn’t even know why he knows such things); pale orange flames flicker on top of the candles around the room. It seems very different now, when dark has settled in; even more spacey, yet somehow intimate.

                He has completely forgotten about his leash before it tugs at his throat again.

                "Get up. We need to get you cleaned." Richelieu orders him, this time with his usual voice. Rochefort feels oddly reassured and comfortable hearing it again and obediently follows after the Cardinal.

                They enter the bath and he looks longingly at the small pool in the middle, but it's empty. He doubts he'll have the honour of it anyway. Richelieu takes upon himself to do the work. He takes off Rochefort's clothes (deliberately brushing his hands into that thing he has previously pushed up Rochefort's ass; it makes the latter jump with a sudden jolt of pleasure when the foreign object touches at that special spot inside of him), and proceeds with giving him a sponge bath. While it is common logic, Rochefort can tell Richelieu is unskilled at this - naturally so, when he has servants to do it for him. But it is evident that he tries hard, as his elegant hand takes swipe after swipe again, brushing at Rochefort's skin. He even washes Rochefort's legs, which gives the Captain a very uncanny feeling. He can't pinpoint the exact words to put his discomfort in, but he knows it feels very wrong. He prefers it to be the other way around.

                "Spread your legs a little." the Cardinal orders and Rochefort obeys.

                The Cardinal traces some imaginary line that divides perfectly the space between Rochefort's legs and then reaches between them. His fingers brush the sensitive skin of Rochefort’s ass. Rochefort trembles, a jolt of pleasure shoots to his dick. The muscles of the Cardinal's lower arm tighten, indicating to Rochefort that the other man is probably clenching his hand. He takes a deep breath, preparing.

                Said breath quickly escapes him in the form of a loud moan when he feels the thing move inside of him. A small smirk tugs at Richelieu's lips, but his eyes are concentrated. His hand moves, pulling out what has been inside of Rochefort until now. Rochefort moans again from the mixed feelings, the vague pleasure deep inside of him, wrapped in discomfort - his hole hasn't been a subject to the stretching and now protests from it. He feels it pulsating against his will, more tightening rather than the desired loosening.

                He breathes heavily, trying to calm his heartbeat and allow the rhythm of pumping blood to guide his conscious mind. Richelieu won't stop for him, won't try to make it feel less uncomfortable; Rochefort has to do it for himself.

                There is a moment of very painful stretching and then suddenly it's all gone. He feels uncanny and peculiarly empty. There is a slick leak from his ass which he cannot stop, as hard as he tries to clench.

                Richelieu pulls his arm back and shows Rochefort the thing that has been inside of him. It's as big as a child's fist, and the best form that comes to Rochefort’s mind to describe it is a water drop with a base like those of wineglasses. Its colour is scattered pink and violet, like a shattered crystal that has only been polished on the outside; its inside is a shattered glass suspended in the second after the break, when all the shards reflect the light upon them differently. It's beautiful, in its own way, looking more like a thing to put on your shelf rather than in someone's ass. Something translucent and slippery drips from it; Rochefort suspects it's the same thing that is still dripping from his own ass.

                "Did you like it?" Richelieu asks him, wiping the thing with the sponge and leaving it in the pot of water.

                Rochefort nods, biting back on questions such as why the Cardinal is in possession of such objects, and whether he is inquiring after the object's looks or the feelings it has given Rochefort whilst inside of him.

                Richelieu smirks, seemingly pleased. He gives Rochefort’s ass a good wipe and sends him back to the bedroom, instructing him to go to bed. He gives the other end of the leash to Rochefort and Rochefort obediently walks himself to the bed. It is not a leash, actually, now that he looks at it, but a belt rather, or at least some weird leather band with no holes, making a loop around his neck. It is dark brown and he estimates it as very expensive, high quality leather.

                When he reaches the bed he is perturbed by another dilemma. Richelieu instructed him to get to bed. But is Rochefort to get in the bed? Or to sleep beside it? He tries not to look at the small army of big plump pillows which decorate the head of the bed, beckoning him to rest his head on them and sleep until the Rapture comes. After some seconds of hesitation, he decides to go for a compromising, yet somewhat challenging decision. He removes the heavy coverlet and curls comfortably at the bottom end of the bed. He leaves the leash above his head so that the chance of it tangling in his arms is minimal; the thought of Richelieu saving him from his own semi-conscious accidental self-asphyxiation makes him bury his face in the cool sheets with embarrassment.

                He feels gentle fingers caressing his naked back and realizes he has fallen asleep and the touching is what wakes him. He manages to unglue his eyelids from one another and lifts his head, looking around. Richelieu is sitting at the end of the bed. He's just in a pair of simple black drawers; his hair is a mess, falling over his sides and face, barely making way for his half-closed eyes to see. Some droplets still trickle down the needle-like locks of hair, and splash on his shoulders; some run further down his chest. This is the first time Rochefort sees the Cardinal so underdressed. He has to admit he is impressed. The Cardinal has a nice and tight body, despite his age: pale skin covers tight, lean muscles, barely outlined in the poor light of the candles.  His arms are long and good looking, not too buffed but no bones protruding either. It's the body of a man who takes care of himself.

                "You are a clingy dog." Richelieu smirks at Rochefort and there is something slightly menacing in his eyes. "I should send you away before your affections cost us both our heads."

                Rochefort looks away, crestfallen.

                "Don't be stupid, Rochefort. I can't send away the Captain of the guard, who also happens to be a courtier." Richelieu laughs, but his eyes are barely smiling. "But really now, you're naked and leashed lying in my bed, doesn't that bother you even one bit? You can answer me."

                "I have always been at the mercy of Your Eminence." Rochefort replies with a quiet voice. "I am never to question Your Eminence's decisions and actions, for Your Eminence has Your perfect reasoning." he adds as an afterthought.

                Richelieu stares at him and Rochefort struggles to maintain the eye contact.

Richelieu is not the type of man to act mysterious; it is quite on the contrary: he's very expressive about his feelings. He laughs when he is content and he furrows his brows when he is not. He smiles attentively whilst listening to the King but his smile is ironic and self-evident of his disagreement. He sighs and talks very slowly when he's annoyed or tired.

But there are some moments, rare, very rare, when his face betrays nothing. His eyes are walls of ice that guard what happens in his head; his mouth is a thin line inclined neither to smile nor to frown, and his expression is blank like a pure sheet of paper. It's the most fearsome thing Rochefort has ever witnessed, worse than the shouting, worse than the heavy silence before the storm of the Cardinal's feelings released upon some poor soul, mostly Rochefort.

                It's even worse than indifference, because it leaves place for hope, and hope is the vile beast that can ruin a king and a slave alike.

                The silence stretches between them, heavy and dark.

                A candle somewhere behind Rochefort flickers and hisses as the flame goes out. Richelieu shakes his head, as if the motion of the shadows has woken him from some kind of a trance, and lets his lips curve in a grin.

                _"Yes."_

                He climbs on the bed on all fours and looms over Rochefort’s body. Their lips almost touch; Richelieu's breath tickles Rochefort's lips and they quirk from the tickling sensation. His body tenses with anticipation of the kiss, but he dares not initiate it. The novelty of such a feeling, such intimate intrusion upon personal space with no physical contact, it arouses him like nothing else in his life, it sends throbs of pleasure down his cock.

                "Shh, down boy." the Cardinal whispers, grinning, and he's so close that him talking makes his lips brush against those of Rochefort, and the latter opens his mouth, inviting Richelieu in, but the Cardinal still doesn't kiss him.

                He pulls back and Rochefort realizes Richelieu has been reaching for the leash, which is now in his hand.

                Rochefort's heart skips a beat when he takes in the view of Richelieu's body, towering above him. His gaze scans the landscape of lean muscles, touches the hair that covers the lower abdomen, drinks the looks of the skin until it’s cut off by the sharp waistline of Richelieu's drawers. There is a bulge beneath the cloth and Rochefort can't help but to lick his lips. There is too much saliva on his tongue and it dribbles down his chin, hiding in his beard.

                "Do you want it?" the Cardinal teases him with a slight pelvic thrust and Rochefort nearly snaps his neck in his hurry to nod.

                They tumble ungracefully whilst shifting their position, Rochefort leaning his neck and head against the board of the bed and Richelieu moving with him, frantic fingers at the same time fumbling with the buttons of his drawers.

                Still on his knees, Richelieu moves a bit forward so that there's no need for Rochefort to strain his neck. Rochefort himself cannot stop licking his lips in anticipation, more and more saliva dribbling down his chin, until finally, _finally_ , the Cardinal takes his half-hard cock in his hand and guides it into Rochefort's more than welcoming mouth. Rochefort sucks hungrily on the flesh and it sends a spasm through Richelieu. He grabs at the flowery motifs decorating the board of his bed with both his hands and exhales sharply and audibly.

                Rochefort greedily takes in his mouth as much as he can, bathing the quickly growing organ with his saliva. He has never done this before, not so boldly even in his dreams, and it takes him time to manage salivating, sucking, licking and breathing at the same time without completely failing at least two things at once. He is tense, trying his best to keep his teeth from grazing the Cardinal's sensitive flesh, and it makes him choke more often than he likes. But he slowly realizes that a touch alone doesn't hurt, and even, with the right pressure at the right point, makes Richelieu hard as rock and throbbing.

                Rochefort slackens his jaw and the gagging lessens, becomes nearly bearable. The Cardinal is slowly thrusting in and out, literally fucking Rochefort's mouth, and Rochefort loves it - he loves the strong flavour-smell of Richelieu deep in his mouth; the way the skin slips back and forth on his tongue, lubricated by his salivation, yet he can still feel the friction between it and his tongue, and that friction makes Richelieu pant, and sigh, and groan with the pleasure. It's amazingly arousing, and Rochefort has to nearly battle himself in order not to grab hold of his own cock and get a quick release. Instead, he sucks more fervently; once or twice he thinks he tastes something more, something salty and pungent, and he tries squeezing out more, but the Cardinal just pulls completely out, leaving only the tip of his cock between Rochefort's lips.

                The third time he tastes it, Richelieu pulls back abruptly, leaving Rochefort's mouth gaping and wanting; sticky saliva threads between them and breaks, dripping over Rochefort's chest. Richelieu exhales audibly and runs his fingers through Rochefort's hair; his eyes are half-closed, clouded with content and lust.

                "Up." he commands, his voice raspy and aroused.

                He makes way for Rochefort to move beneath him, guiding him into a desired position with the help of the leash. It's nearly a classic one, only that instead of all fours Rochefort is holding the board for support, ready to be taken from behind. There's something very primal, very perverse about this position, and he loves it. That violet-pink thing, it was strange, but not unpleasant, and not the least bit satisfying. He craves for the feeling of Richelieu's cock, buried deep inside of him, the friction of skin and skin, a rhythm that blows his mind, the tipping of the scale when perhaps he comes without even being touched, just from being ravaged on the inside.

                Richelieu leaves the leash on Rochefort's back and grips tight at Rochefort's hips with both hands. Rochefort can feel the thumbs pulling his ass open ever so slightly, and then he feels the tip of Richelieu's cock pushing inside of him. He concentrates on his breathing and tries to imagine his calm pulse so that he can listen to it. His muscles start to quiver, having by now completely forgotten about the stretch of earlier. Richelieu advances slowly but firmly, until with a sudden slip he's buried to the hilt and their moans mix in the air, echoing around the darkness of the room.

                Richelieu scrapes Rochefort's skin with his nails and it sends shivers along the Captain's spine, making him buck against Richelieu. The Cardinal thrusts forward indulgingly, and his hand takes the leash. Rochefort can feel the leather band drawing, but there's no pull at his neck. Instead, he feels the warm, sweaty skin of Richelieu's stomach and chest on his back; it rubs against his own when Richelieu starts thrusting in him. The Cardinal shifts his position, reassured by Rochefort's stability; he wraps his arms around the Captain's chest and establishes a rhythm of small, shallow thrusts, not so much pulling in and out, but rather a pushing, as further in as their bodies allow, and his rocking in is taken on by Rochefort. He tries to rock against the Cardinal, but gets confused between maintaining his own rhythm and following Richelieu’s, and fumbles, quickly after settling into the Cardinal's thrusting. No thinking, just following, he reminds himself.

                The creaking of the bed fills the immediate space around them, but is swallowed by the darkness of the room. Rochefort tries to look for an anchor for his gaze, watches at the floor, or at the flower patterns of the board, or at his hands, but it's insufficient and distracting, so he just closes his eyes and leaves it all to the sensual pleasure.

                No thinking; just following.

                Richelieu's hands hold him tight in place. It's comforting and arousing at the same time, how the Cardinal's hands slacken or tighten their grip; how his fingers, so used to the pen and paper, are now feeling and exploring Rochefort’s chest. Both of them are sweating, and where flesh meets flesh the sweat is trembling from the movement, dripping down over heated, flexing muscles, wrapped in flushed skin.

                Richelieu thrusts in especially hard, and it makes Rochefort moan loudly.

                "Lewd." Richelieu comments, his voice nearly a whisper. His thrusts gain on intensity and speed; the rhythmic movements rock their bodies almost in unison, Rochefort moving some moments after Richelieu. The Cardinal's hands are restless over the Captain's body, groping and gripping tight, seeking better place for support. His fingers brush Rochefort's leaking cock, give it a slow and sensual stroke, and quickly abandon it, only to settle on Rochefort’s hipbones. There they grip the flesh so hard it will surely leave bruising. Rochefort moans and bucks back against Richelieu's thrusts. He can feel the well-known pooling somewhere deep inside of him, but it's slow, so torturously slow it nearly makes him scream with the frustration.

                Richelieu leans his forehead on Rochefort’s back and starts thrusting mercilessly. Rochefort knows the other man is close, can almost see him pursing his lips and tightening his jaw with concentration, and a second later can feel it, when the cock inside of him gets impossibly hard and starts throbbing. His own need is driving him mad, so he does the only thing that comes to mind: he begs.

                " _Please!_ " he moans, and his voice is pitched with need and something close to desperation.

                Richelieu's hands move so fast as if he has been expecting and preparing for this his whole life.  His arm slips over Rochefort's abdomen, keeping it suspended against his frantic thrusting. The other one grips Rochefort's cock and starts pumping it almost as frantic, the thumb brushing the swollen, dripping head.

                Rochefort cries out when his orgasm hits him, and he comes in the Cardinal's hand. His body goes absolutely limp, washed in the tidal waves of pleasure. He feels the Cardinal's groan vibrating in his chest, but it's cottoned and somewhat distant, as if a memory. Richelieu is still handling him pretty hard, and with each stroke Rochefort can feel the tinge of hypersensitivity, until he's moaning and his body is bucking and thrashing on its own accord.

                As sudden as he has got hold of him, Richelieu releases him and falls limp over Rochefort. They stay like this for minutes, or maybe hours, each catching their own breath, barely alive in the afterglow. Rochefort realizes his arms have gone asleep, especially under the partial pressure of not one, but two bodies.

                It feels like perfection.

                After some time Richelieu manages to get up, or at least on his knees. He falls back on the bed, and it seems that he has been holding the leash tight enough; Rochefort chokes on the sudden clasp and pull on his neck for a moment, before he's pulled down next to the Cardinal.

                "Do you want me to remove that from your neck?" the Cardinal asks after some time of silence.

                "As you deem fit." Rochefort responds and his voice is hoarse from the dryness of his throat. He takes Richelieu's hand and plants a gentle kiss upon it.

                The Cardinal swiftly removes the collar and throws it away. He then turns Rochefort on his side and nestles against his back, tangling their feet together. He says nothing and in a few minutes his even breathing lulls Rochefort to sleep.


End file.
